She Is Not a Writer

She is not a writer.
Words are stuck
like inkblots to her throat.
She is stuck between
lined pages, a pen, and
the glowing screen.

She is a walking cliché.
Disheveled hair,
fists of coffee cups—
patterned sweater on her back,
messenger bag at her hip.
Her glasses—too big.
Her thoughts—too small.

Her car broke down this morning.
She doesn’t have money
to fix it.

Even when she is still
she is on the run—
drowning
in her mind;
drowning
on this page.

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